Amongst the Wreckage
by PhoebeLovesSouffle
Summary: How a girl named after a flower that blossomed beside the mines of District 12 entered the Hunger Games, pulled through when the odds were against it, and helped with a Rebellion that granted many of the people of Panem their happily ever afters amongst the wreckage. This is Sorrel's story.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi everyone and welcome to the first chapter of my new story! It's a Hunger Games one, so let me just say – I don't own the Hunger Games :D Right, with that over and done with, on with the story!**

Life in the Seam is hard for most people, in all honesty. For a start, the housing is cramped – and it's impossible to avoid your neighbours (most of which are gossips). It's also impossible to hide anything too. Our walls are made of weak, paper thin wood, meaning no argument, disagreement or celebration goes unnoticed.

Naturally, this can be a good or bad thing, depending on the thing you're trying to hide.

I'm not sure that that's the way I like it. For example, when my parents split, the people around us heard the final argument long before we'd even made news of their separation public.

But one thing I hate the Seam for is not knowing where my mother has gone.

When she left without a trace with her new man, I expected that such a tight knit community would have realised where she had gone to live. That's what I wanted, so I could search her out and catch up on the years I'd lived without her.

But no such luck.

"Sorrel!" my father hollers, voice weak from years of abuse in the mines, but still managing to remain cheerful. "Time to get up!"

As I roll out of bed, I understand why my father is being unnaturally bright and cheerful.

Today is the Reaping. Just another way for me to die.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello! The first chapter of this was just sort of an introduction thingy so this is where the real action starts :D Review please :3**

The walls seem to close in on me, slowly, steadily, but still too quick for my liking. The paint has faded on the ceiling, and on all four walls the wallpaper is peeling in the corners. No one, apart from me, understands how imposing that can be.

When I edge out of the room to escape the feeling, sunlight is streaming in through the windows, in soft shafts of light that seem to be either taunting me, or wishing me luck for the Reaping later. Whichever it is, I pay them no attention. Even though sunlight is hardly a common occurrence in the Seam, I don't like it. I prefer the thick layer of smoke that coats the air and the cloud that overshadows our house because then, at least it feels like home.

I hate change, which is why I hated it when my world was turned upside down when my parents separated. As an eleven year old, I thought they were the perfect couple and nothing could ever come between them. But now, as a seventeen year old I've realised that there were cracks in their seemingly perfect relationship. That every smile whilst I was around was forced, and that the only reason they stuck with each other for so long was because of me.

Even so, ever since she left my father has become so withdrawn. He loved her, and I don't think he could ever love anyone else.

Which is why I think it would break his heart if I was reaped.

But we don't need tesserae – my name is only in the Reaping Ball the standard number of times for a girl my age. My father frequents the Hob for essentials, like clothes and food, so with that, we are able to get by. Compared to the others around me, I'm lucky. So, so lucky.

When my father places the loaf of bread on the table, it's still deliciously warm. As I tear through it, various types of dried fruit explode in my mouth, and I savour every last bite of it. For us, this kind of food only lasts us one mealtime. For others, it would have to last all week.

There was a time when we were starving. There was a time when we were no better off than the others. But now, since my father has gained his job in the bakery and started to reminisce about my mother less and less, I think my life is good again.

Which is why I'm forcing myself not to think about the reaping, and he is too.

Treating it like a normal day, I try and make conversation. Usually, conversation flows effortlessly at the breakfast table, but today, there doesn't seem anything else to talk about other than the thing that we are both avoiding.

"I'm off to the bakery," he mumbles, biting his lip and heading out of the door.

"Bye, dad," I say, knowing full well that he isn't going to the bakery – from my past knowledge I know that it doesn't open on the day of the Reaping. Still, I allow him some time to think. About the prospect of losing me.

When I've finished the bread I head over to my sewing machine. The piece of equipment is clumsy and old, but still, it was my mother's, and nowadays, I base my whole life around it; making clothes that can be traded in the Hob. My mother did the same, before she left.

The way the machine works in rows is almost hypnotising to me, and before I know it I'm mesmerised, completely forgetting to remove the material and examine my work. It's a Reaping dress, made especially for the occasion. There are mistakes where I've lost concentration, but overall, I'm slightly proud of what I've achieved. The dress is a deep red in colour, and when it's on, it flows over the curves of my body in a way that only a garment sculpted perfectly to my size could.

My head rests in my hands at the kitchen table, and the tick of the clock just reminds me that every second that passes is a second spent with my father still 'out at the bakery'. It's been two hours now, two hours of my life spent pacing the floor and watching the clock and worrying, which is an emotion that I rarely waste on anybody.

When another hour passes and he still does not return, I walk out of the door reluctantly and make my way towards the square. By now, families are milling around nervously about the Seam, clutching their loved ones and for some, knowing that this will be goodbye.

They're just as uneasy as I am.

As I near the square, a certain flower glares at me from the side of the cobbled path. In any other circumstances, I would ignore it, but this time, I cannot ignore the flower I was named for. Field Sorrel, the exact same colour as my dress.

Not wanting to be seen bothering with something as tiny and irrelevant as flowers, I pick it hastily and tuck it into my ponytail, feeling slightly more confident.

And I spot my father, lurking in the shadows and looking as terrified as I've ever seen him. The moment beckons an embrace, and he murmurs sweet things into my hair before gesturing for me to be on my way and taking his place in the square.

I can't deny it. I'm so, so scared.


End file.
